


Healing the Sullied

by shinyforce



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: M/M, angry sex averted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 00:46:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11002443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinyforce/pseuds/shinyforce
Summary: After his encounter with Illidan Stormrage, Rommath is in need of healing.Inspired by 'Windows to the Fel Soul' by alternatedoom. <3





	Healing the Sullied

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alternatedoom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alternatedoom/gifts).
  * Inspired by [windows to the fel soul](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10644207) by [alternatedoom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alternatedoom/pseuds/alternatedoom). 



> For alternatedoom, whose writing is a constant inspiration.

The only place Rommath can possibly go is home. He has feigned good humour for far too long amongst once-kin who would see him dead, ancestors who blame him for all the world’s problems, and once-allies whose contempt for his people is hidden only from stubborn fools who wilfully refuse to see it.

He cannot feign good humour for Illidan Stormrage. He cannot feign anything for Illidan Stormrage; even his bravado was obvious, he is sure, to one so well-versed in the nuances of power. Although he acquitted himself skillfully, met Stormrage face to face as an equal, fought him even as they both knew Stormrage could have ended him with a thought, Rommath cannot shake the feeling that he has lost something tonight, that he has somehow been lessened by this intrusive, unwanted encounter.

Illidan still clings to him, both figuratively and literally, and Rommath is pleased to find that he can find the humour in having fel viscera clogging his nails while the aftermath of having his mouth plundered by the demon who ruined his prince clogs his heart. If his laugh is a little shrill, a little unsteady, well, there is no one around to hear it.

For a moment he tries to imagine Illidan’s lips as Kael’s lips and what might have been, but the foul taste of Illidan’s blood still lingers and he sets his jaw, angry at himself for indulging in fantasies he has long thought scoured away. Kael had had demon blood just the same. Rommath’s devotion, Rommath’s love, had not been enough.

_If only I had had the power he so needed..._

But no. No. The fault lies with Stormrage, reckless and irresponsible and myopic (can one accurately be called myopic if one no longer has eyes? he wonders), and with Kael himself for worshipping power, for grasping at it hungrily no matter the cost.

Returning to Silvermoon takes the very last of his energy, leaves him leaning against the door of his office in the Spire for much longer than his pride will bear, but it is better by far than walking back through the Nighthold to the portal masters. Nothing remains but weariness and bile; he does not trust himself to feign civility, does not trust himself to indulge Vereesa Windrunner’s hate-filled stares and barbed remarks.

Besides, his hands badly need attending to, and how can he possibly explain himself? If no one else, Liadrin would be concerned, would insist on healing them herself. And though they have grown into their roles together, have navigated Rommath’s fear and hubris and Liadrin’s zealotry and vengefulness to eventually become, if not exactly friends, then esteemed colleagues, he still cannot bring anything remotely personal to her. He does not want her compassion, her goodness. It reminds him too much of what he once lacked, of what maybe he still does.

Aldrae, Rommath’s favourite priest, responds to his summons with alacrity and a studious lack of questions, healing his hands, bathing them, and giving Rommath something to purge his system in case he has swallowed any of the ‘undesirable foreign substance’. The platinum-blond priest leaves with a light tread and heavy pockets while Rommath stares at the vial of emetic, steeling himself.

Once he is clean inside and out, Rommath checks himself in the mirror for any Stormrage memorabilia still on his person. No slime, no blood, no questionable fluids; just his weary, bone-tired face staring back at him, eyes sunken, cheekbones gaunt. He has not been sleeping well, has not been eating well. Lor’themar will chastise him for this, he knows, blinking fondly, but he does not plan on letting Lor’themar speak much when he goes to him. Exhausted though he is, Rommath is full of a tense, pulsing energy that he knows only one way to sate.

Lor’themar’s lips will be warm, he thinks as he pads along the hidden passages of the Spire, intermittently steadying himself with a hand on the white stone walls. They will be warm and soft and pliant with sleep – it is the early hours of the morning in Silvermoon, half a world away from Suramar – but still hungry, still challenging. Rommath will slide into bed next to him, will straddle him, mount him, bring him to a fever with tongues and teeth and newly-healed fingers before shoving into him and thrusting, thrusting, losing himself to animal pleasures that will drain his grief and anger. 

This is the only time he will ever mourn Lor’themar’s tendency to sleep nude, for the urge to tear cloth, to conquer without bloodshed, beats savagely in his veins.

Lor’themar is not in his bedchamber, however, and Rommath is surprised only that he had thought he would be. Through their missives Lor’themar has insisted that he is doing well, but Rommath has been absent for months, and Halduron and Liadrin too. Far away from the action, removed from his closest friends and his secret lover, Lor’themar will not be sleeping sweetly.

Rommath hurries, forbids himself from thinking about Lor’themar passed out on his desk surrounded by bottles.

Sliding back the hidden panel, Rommath relaxes, tension ebbing slowly from his shoulders. Lor’themar is asleep at his desk, but next to him is a cup of herbal tea, long since cold. They have joked about the ‘infernal tea’ that Rommath forces upon him; Rommath feels a great surge of love as he looks down upon it, as he looks down upon Lor’themar’s commitment to him.

“I love you,” he murmurs, caressing his sleeping lover with his eyes, though Lor’themar is no longer sleeping now, is stirring with a groan. Rommath feels another surge of love; Lor’themar is rising slowly, recognising Rommath’s voice and countenance as someone safe, someone he need not be startled by. Few people feel truly safe around him, Rommath knows, and likely would even if he did not encourage it. He does not deserve Lor’themar’s trust, but he is grateful for the gift.

“Rommath?” Lor’themar says, heavy eyebrows rising, his wide, full mouth breaking into a smile as he straightens, as he looks up at Rommath with eyes that shine despite his fatigue.

Rommath had intended to be the one pulling Lor’themar to him in a forceful, ardent embrace, squeezing his firm ass, grinding their crotches together, fucking his mouth with his tongue... but the chair scrapes on the floor as Lor’themar pushes up from the desk and crushes Rommath against him, muscular arms around his waist, bodies flush, squeezing and squeezing until Rommath gives a pointed wheeze. Lor’themar pulls back slightly, so they can gaze upon each other’s faces, and the smile is still there, full of joy and relief.

“You have returned to me,” Lor’themar says in that impossibly smooth voice, the slight rumble stirring butterflies. Rommath slips his own arms around Lor’themar’s waist and closes his eyes as Lor’themar kisses him gently on the forehead. The gesture is impossibly romantic, and Rommath finds his pulse quickening as Lor’themar moves down to kiss his nose, pausing then at his lips, his breath warm on Rommath’s face, the scent of herbal tea familiar and pleasing. 

Rommath realises he has parted his lips in anticipation, and as he opens his eyes he sees Lor’themar watching him, lips also parted. They gaze at each other, slowly inhaling, exhaling, the moment drawn out and electric and full of trembling, full of thunder – and then they are kissing, soft and gentle and desperate, lips damp and shining, the small wet sounds as their lips come together again and again making Rommath’s heart hammer against his ribs.

He had come to Silvermoon with grief and violence sullying his soul, as dark and viscous as Illidan’s blood had been on his tongue. He had come to Silvermoon with a thrumming need to purge himself, to fling the memory of being kissed by Illidan Stormrage into the abyss. 

Lor’themar, though. Lor’themar makes him see that he need not thrash and fight and fuck to feel whole again. Each increasingly hungry kiss is a love letter, each parting of their lips punctuation underlining the words that need not be said.

“I missed you desperately,” Rommath blurts out between kisses, half-strangled by the strength of his feelings. Once, he would have been ashamed to say such artless things, but loving Lor’themar has changed him, has crumbled the dam of his passions.

“Not as much as I missed you,” Lor’themar rumbles, crushing Rommath against him once more, kissing him deeply this time, passionately, tongue hot and wet and bold, sliding and pushing against Rommath’s with a deep, guttural groan. Lor’themar’s energy is heavy, forceful, and Rommath believes him; stuck behind a desk for months, bored and lonely, Lor’themar must have been playing this moment over and over in his head. And Rommath will let him have it, will give it to him gladly. He does not need violence, not when he can grasp rambling roses instead.

Rommath feels like an adolescent again. Kissing has not felt like this for an age, so pure and good and soulful. It is not pure, of course – Rommath can feel Lor’themar’s hardness between them, feels his own throbbing in answer – but their affection feels _clean_ , the horrors of his encounter with Illidan just a nightmare dissolved by the rising sun of Lor’themar’s devotion.

Rommath looks to the divan in the little room at the back of the office, but Lor’themar shakes his head and leads them towards the panel in the wall that will take them to his bed chamber. They laugh against each other’s mouths as they attempt to navigate the narrow passages while still kissing, and Rommath feels slightly giddy as Lor’themar grins at him, ears curling in self-abashed mirth, and takes his hand in his, not wanting to separate for a moment.

They tumble onto the bed and laugh again as they clack teeth, Lor’themar landing atop Rommath before Rommath has properly settled himself.

“Get off me, you oaf,” Rommath complains, and Lor’themar obliges, resting on his knees and pulling his shirt off provocatively, stretching his arms for longer than necessary, staring mischievously at Rommath with his one good eye. Lor’themar’s torso looks a little softer than usual, likely the result of boredom and depression; Rommath wants to rest his head on his stomach, later, and have his hair stroked.

By candlelight Lor’themar is achingly beautiful, his scars and hair both silver and lovely. Rommath knows where that trail goes, the one disappearing teasingly into his trousers; his hands are clumsy on the fastenings and Lor’themar laughs at him, caresses his cheek and murmurs “well done” when Rommath finally pulls them down his legs, brushed with short hairs that are delightfully soft against his hands.

Now clad only in his underwear, Lor’themar attempts to disrobe Rommath and is met with a similar obstacle. “How did you even get this on?” he asks incredulously, groping for a hidden zipper or lacings or _something_.

“Conjured.” Rommath flashes a smile, full of teeth, and the form-fitting robe melts away. Lor’themar’s eyes rake over his almost naked form, and Rommath is grateful that he doesn’t mention how Rommath has lost weight, doesn’t ask if he’s been working too hard and not eating enough. There will be time for that conversation later, once they have loved, once they have rested.

“Tell me how I am in your dreams,” Rommath says as they settle back down on the bed, fully nude now, bodies deliciously entwined side by side. “How can I serve you?” His tone is teasing, but they both know he means it. _I live to serve,_ he thinks, taking pleasure in mocking himself.

“You will laugh.”

“I will not.”

“I want to make love to you,” Lor’themar confesses, voice rough and ardent.

“How romantic,” Rommath says, kissing him gently. “Shall I swoon in your arms and climax with your name on my lips?”

“I was being serious.”

“So was I,” Rommath says, hastily stroking Lor’themar’s hair. Sometimes he does not know when Lor’themar needs him to be earnest, though he is learning, slowly. “I’m sorry. I want that too.”

Lor’themar graciously takes Rommath at his word, guides him onto his back and settles atop him, kissing his mouth and sliding his hands down his torso, strong and warm and clever. Kind hands, precious hands. Their erections brush together and Rommath hisses, the animal pleasure both a relief and a torment.

He is glad when Lor’themar does not draw out their foreplay. They have been apart for too long, his body will not stand it. He needs Lor’themar inside him, needs to feel stretched and full and part of someone else, part of something else. Something bigger than him, bigger than the Nighthold, bigger than Illidan fucking Stormrage.

When Lor’themar presses gently into him Rommath moans, wraps his legs around Lor’themar’s waist and clings to his shoulders, unexpectedly overcome. Every one of his nerves is alight, every inch of skin sensitive beyond reason. Lor’themar’s movements are long, luxurious, would be unbearably drawn out if his member did not curve so deliciously against his sweet spot, pressing into it slowly on the way in, dragging against it slowly on the way out. 

Rommath had been keyed up for rough sex, had expected to be the one thrusting, the one in control, but as he continues to hang on to Lor’themar he is glad, so glad, to have had that burden taken from him. He twitches and whimpers, his body rocking beneath Lor’themar’s, and lets the simple pleasure heal him in a way Aldrae could not. He allows himself to feel, to moan and gasp and throw his head back as Lor’themar eventually speeds up, as Lor’themar grunts and pants and murmurs sweet nothings beside his ear in _that_ voice, sultry and passionate and unchained.

When Lor’themar wraps a hand around his length Rommath shudders and gives a full-bodied groan, opening his eyes to look helplessly into Lor’themar’s single gleaming one.

“Let me hear my name,” Lor’themar murmurs. 

Rommath can only obey, Lor’themar’s name spilling from his lips between gasps as his orgasm builds, an ache deep in his loins that is becoming heavy and urgent.

“Come for me,” Lor’themar rumbles, and again Rommath can only obey, Lor’themar’s name spilling from his lips as his pleasure spills from his cock, hot and wet between them.

Lor’themar growls, clearly pleased, but the growl slides into a choke and his hips jerk once, twice, erratic and forceful, and then he too is coming, unable to bear Rommath clenching and fluttering around him.

Rommath feels lightheaded and feverish, Lor’themar’s seed inside him a comfort, a luxury he has long yearned for. His body is still twitching from aftershocks and he feels somehow beautiful, as though Lor’themar’s love has made him greater than he is. He wonders if Lor’themar feels the same.

“Was that how it goes in the dreams?” Rommath asks with a crooked smile after they have cleaned up, nestled against Lor’themar’s comforting bulk.

“You were quieter in my fantasies,” Lor’themar says. 

Rommath thumps him with a loosely-balled fist.

They lie together for a while in comfortable silence, Lor’themar idly stroking Rommath’s hair, Rommath idly caressing Lor’themar’s belly. This bed, Rommath thinks, is as holy as the Sunwell, and he marvels at how genuine the thought is, at his complete lack of embarrassment. _How you have changed me._

“Rommath,” Lor’themar says abruptly, his fingers stilling. “I cannot tell you how much I have missed you.”

“You are telling me now,” Rommath says, raising his head to kiss him, affection shining in his eyes. “And I you. The nights in Suramar were interminable without you.” He feels endlessly generous, drunk on love.

“You are returning, though.” It is not a question.

“I must. The libraries, the knowledge... there is so much we have lost, so much to rediscover. But,” he says, pressing another kiss to Lor’themar’s lips, “I intend to spend my nights in Silvermoon. My role in this spectacle is over. I have earned my comforts.”

“That you have,” Lor’themar murmurs, reaching down, squeezing one of Rommath’s buttocks. “If there is anything in my power to give that will bring you joy, you have earned it, my love.”

_My love._ Rommath shivers. One day, he is sure, he will stop delighting in those words on Lor’themar’s lips, but he hopes he never does.

“All I want is you,” Rommath says, earnest when it really matters. He is learning.

**Author's Note:**

> After talking with alternatedoom in the comments of 'Windows to the Fel Soul' I intended to write a fic where Rommath returns to Silvermoon and works off his anger through rough, angry sex. Evidently that didn't happen, and I'm tickled that both the original work and this one ended up in very different places to the authors' intentions!
> 
> The working title for this fic was 'Smoop'. I think Rommath and Lor'themar deserve their romance. <3
> 
> I'm still working on my omega Rommath fic (18000 words and part one still isn't finished yet, whyyyyyyy), but the idea for this grabbed me by the throat and wouldn't let go!


End file.
